Is it just me, or has this country been slowly dumbing down over the last generation? Listen closely and you can hear the gentle clicking of I.Q.'s winding back. Click click click...

   The whole point of setting up this page was to comment on how everything in this once-fine nation of ours is slowly dumbing down to the point of idiocy. Nowhere is this more apparent than in our day to day media. I don't know how it happened, but somewhere during the rise of this current generation we, as a country, decided that news was far too boring and that we'd much rather have gossip instead.
  Recently, it was front page headlines that Ronan Keating was getting a divorce. The lead singer from some boy band that was popular a decade ago was splitting with his missus. That was the leading story in a number of tabloids and made the first page on most of the others.
   So. Fucking. What.
   Please explain to me how this even vaguely constitutes 'news'. Please explain who, apart from Ronan himself, Mrs. Keating and possibly his mum would be the remotest bit interested in such trivia. Worse, the tabloids apparently had photographers posted outside his house. Why, for fuck's sake? Do they think him and his Doris are going to play slaps in the living room window for the benefit of the paparazzi? This is not news by any stretch of the imagination. At all. No matter how wrapped up in 'celebrities' you are, no matter how much 'I'm A Big Idol Brother In The Jungle On Ice Factor' you watch, you cannot possibly be satisfied with this sort of shit on the front page of your daily paper, can you?
   Or maybe you can.
   Maybe the popularity of this sort of crap is intentional. Maybe the thought of the collapsing economy, the relentless tide of immigration, the rampant violent crime rate, the uncontrollable feral youth and the state of things in general after thirteen years of a multicultural socialist paradise is so utterly depressing that the only alternative is to sit there in front of the idiot's lantern and be spoon-fed a non-stop diet of Simon Cowell and Ant & Dec. Nah, that can't be right. It's a golden age right now! After all, everyone's a 'university' graduate these days. The jobs market is awash with talent. There are 2:1s or Desmonds in Aromatherapy and Media Studies as far as the eye can see. Not too sure about the amount of honest labourers around though. Those that didn't get to ride the university train. You know, the ones we used to refer to as the 'working class'. From what I can see, most of them appear to be claiming benefits and drinking Stella whilst being paid to breed. I wonder if they've figured out yet that there actually has to be more people putting into the pot than taking out in order for the system to work? Don't worry, they will. Very soon, I'm guessing.
  Actually, now that I come to think about it, the country does still have a 'working class', doesn't it? It's just that we call them 'Poles' these days.
  For my own part, I've come to the conclusion that we as a nation are in some sort of collective denial. We are all standing around with our fingers in our ears going 'la la la' for fear of actually seeing how bad things are. I reckon people would rather read about Jordan's latest spat with Pete than face up to the thought that things are so far in the khazi after Old One Eye and The Eyebrow destroyed the economy that we all might be out of a job soon? (those of us that still have one, that is.)
  I hope this is what's happened; I really do. Because the alternative answer - that the current crop of twentysomethings are simply monumentally fucking thick - is too frightening to comprehend. After all, these will be the ones running the show in a few decades time. The slow 'click, click, click' of IQs winding back that I allude to in the strapline for this page is sounding more and more like an outboard motor these day.
  Frightening...

It made my day recently when I discovered that there was a decent coffee shop on the way to my new place of work. I normally prefer Caffe Nero (an extra shot as standard), but Costa will do if there's nothing else. Since I would be passing it every morning, I decided to see if they ran some kind of loyalty scheme. They do, but quite unlike any I've seen before. In fact, I don't think it's too much of an exaggeration to say that the Costa Coffee scheme is pretty much the most blatant and ridiculous corporate piss-take I've ever encountered. Allow me to explain. Most of the coffee shops I've ever known do something like this: you buy a coffee and they give you a little cardboard card with nine boxes printed on. Each time you buy a coffee, they mark a stamp in one of the boxes. Fill all nine and you hand the card in for a free coffee. Buy nine, get the tenth free. Simple.
   Costa have apparently decided that this wasn't good enough. Little bits of cardboard and stamps? How very antiquated! They have instead come up with a nice, shiny 'credit card' type loyalty card and a new points collection system instead. Every time you spend a pound, you get five points added to your card. Only whole pounds count though, so there are only ten points added each time you buy a £2,65 medium coffee. At the back end, when you come to redeem them, each point is worth a penny.
   This means that instead of 'buy nine, get the tenth free' (which Caffe Nero are still offering), Costa's new system works out as 'buy twenty-seven, get the twenty-eighth free'. This, in the complex technical jargon of strategic corporate marketing, is known as 'taking the piss' and, despite my love of vanilla latte, has cost Costa a customer (which is much easier to say after three shots of espresso).
   Disaster! No early morning caffeine bomb for your poor Fish...until I had a look at the other coffee shops on Liverpool Street Station and found a Krispy Kreme hidden away down a side alley at the other end of the concourse. What's more, Krispy Kreme are still doing the old card and stamp routine and theirs is 'buy five, get the sixth free', which is positively stonking! So instead of a vanilla latte on my way to work, I will now be having an Americano and making up the sugar hit with a lovely warm Krispy Creme doughnut. Ok, so it's a little further to walk and about a quid dearer, but I now feel my custom is being valued and no-one is trying to convince me that being had over is in my best interests. Also, given the sort of stubborn bastard that I am, I have now vowed never to set foot in a Costa Coffee again. Way to inspire loyalty there, guys!

Sometimes, it's all I can do not to scream. Take a look at the picture opposite. In place of  a traditional fifth of November bonfire, Ilfracombe Rugby Club, down in deepest Devon, will be having this. It's a 16' by 12' video screen showing an image of a real, heartily burning bonfire complete with a speaker system so that the roar and crackle of the flames can be 'enjoyed'. The club has held this 'non-fire' night for the past four years, as Health and Safety legislation meant a real bonfire 'was not financially viable.' In order to further add to the ambience, any revellers stupid enough to actually turn up will be warmed by giant heaters. Jesus.
  Paul Crabb, the club president, said they came up with the idea because qualified fire marshals and barricades needed to keep people at a safe distance from a real fire would've cost far too much. This virtual option works out at a mere three hundred notes, and is therefore a far more attractive proposition - on paper at least. The event, which has run for the past five years, is expected to attract in the region of 2,000 visitors. They're obviously strapped for entertainment in Devon, and I've no doubt a big telly with a fire on it proves a far superior form of pastime than the traditional ones of throwing stones at the moon or drinking cider until you fall over.
  Speaking of alcohol, when asked where the idea came from, Paul said "It was lager, probably. We were all sat round the table discussing the pros and cons of having a bonfire, the idea of a virtual fire was thrown into the discussion and everyone thought it was a great idea." Everyone in Devon thinks that Joss Stone is a great idea, but I'll let that one pass.
  The worrying thing here is that, although this event has become something of a quirky local legend, given half a chance, the HSE would be more than happy to see it rolled out everywhere. Virtual fires don't burn people, do they? This obviously means they're safer. I, for one, cannot ever recall anyone other than Edward Woodward being burned in a communal bonfire. Normal people usually notice how warm it gets if they stand too close and tend to move back a bit, but there you go.
  Sadly, it is becoming apparent that our traditional Bonfire Night seems to be slowly dying out in favour of the crass commercialisation of the week beforehand. Retail Week reported that UK sales of Hallowe'en-related products hit the £235 million mark in 2009, a huge increase from the £12m spent on them in 2001, while firework sales are down 40% on this time last year. Depressing, isn't it?
  Still at least all those happy West Country yokels will be as safe as safe can be, milling about in front of their giant televised psuedo-conflagration. Let's hope the fucking thing doesn't fall on any of them, shall we?
  What a crying shame that would be...

Yes, it's survey time again. I haven't done a survey post for a while, so I thought I'd regale you with the findings of one that the hotel chain Travelodge decided to undertake a few months back. They wanted to see how much knowledge the average British person had of the British countryside. The results make interesting reading. Interesting in a 'Dear God, what has the nation come to?' kind of way. Of the three thousand or so people surveyed, twenty-two per cent could not identify a picture of a hare. Fair enough, I suppose. Most of them would've said 'rabbit', which is understandable. Just. However, things get worse when you find out that one in ten of the people looking at the hare picture thought it was a deer. Following on from this, when shown a picture of a real deer - a red stag, to be precise - twelve per cent of Brits questioned had no hesitation in identifying it as a reindeer, and furthermore swore blind that reindeer were native to Britain. A further thirty-two per cent had difficulty picking out a pheasant (with guesses ranging from partridge to peacock), forty-two per cent didn't know what an otter looked like and an astonishing eighty-three per cent were utterly bafled by a picture of a common bluebell. You know, the little blue flower that's shaped like a bell. The killer, though - the absolute jaw-on-the-deck revelation - is that one in ten adults failed to correctly identify a photograph of a sheep. A fucking sheep! For those of you falling into this sorry category, the picture at the top of this article is of an elbow...

Look at this. This is one of the dishes created by celebrity chef Heston Blumenthal and served at his triple Michelin-starred restaurant, 'The Fat Duck' in Bray, Berkshire. Quite a few people have been looking at this dish recently. Forty of them have seen it more than once in the same twenty-four hour period, after an attack of diarrhoea and vomiting cut a swathe through Heston's diners, with some four hundred people complaining that they were ill following a meal at the Duck. Now let me strenuously point out that these people were not laid low by food poisoning. Blumenthal's restaurant regularly sends off samples of his dishes for routine analysis and he employs a firm to specifically look after the Health and Safety side of his business. No, it turns out that three of his staff and five of his customers were found to have the dreaded norovirus, or 'winter vomiting bug'.
   Whatever the cause, the restaurant is now back up and running and there is still a long queue of people wishing to sample Heston's creations, such as the one pictured above. Know what it is? Well, this is one of Blumenthal's signature dishes, the famous 'snail porridge' which is part of his £130 a head 'tasting menu', which also includes such delights as Anjou Pigeon Black Pudding, Quail Jelly, Oak Moss and Truffle Toast, Poached Salmon in Licquorice and Bacon and Egg Ice Cream. If you don't fancy any of that, there's always the £98 A La Carte menu, featuring such delights as Crab Biscuits, Cauliflower Risotto, Langoustine and Pig's Trotter Lasagne (eight pounds supplement payable) and Lamb with Ice Filtered Lamb Jelly.
   Heston's biography states that his work 'researches the molecular compounds of dishes so to enable a greater understanding of taste and flavour', and he has been awarded an Honorary Degree by The University of Reading for his dedicated research and commitment to the exploration of culinary science and, in particular, his 'original and scientific approach to the molecular breakdown of cuisine'. Hmmm...quite.
   For me, being a working-class yob, the whole point of dining out is to go and have a meal that someone else is cooking. I want tasty food at a reasonable price and lots of it. What I don't want is a cornet full of fried breakfast and the chance of an evening on the toilet, which is why my idea of a good restaurant is this place. Like I said, I'm a yob. I might not have as much class as Heston's usual clientelle, but neither have I found myself with my head down the khazi after eating out any time recently.
   I suspect we're back in 'modern art' territory here. Some people will always be happy to spend their money simply for snob value. You might be only too pleased to book months ahead for the chance to spend north of three hundred quid taking the missus out for a mouthful of mollusc, some tree-scrapings on toast and a nice bottle of wine. I, on the other hand, smell a rat. Or is it a pigeon? Don't get me wrong; I have a palate. I'm quite capable of savouring the delicate piqancy of fresh sushi or the robustness of a good fois gras, it's just that when the bill is coming out of my wallet, I like to leave feeling as though I've actually eaten something, which is why, given the option, the food served at Mad O' Rourke's is always going to win out over the the dainty, oh-so-pretty culinary creations championed by the Michelin joints.
   Quantity, as well as quality. I think you know where I'm coming from.
   Keep your pureed Helix Aspersa, Heston. I'll take the Desperate Dan Cow Pie and the pint of Lumphammer, ta very much...

   (By the way, you may be interested to hear that the one person I know who has actually partaken of The Fat Duck's 'tasting menu' ended up grabbing a bag of chips on the way home because he was, and I quote, 'fucking starving'.)

Concerns have been raised over figures just released that show twenty-six teenagers - some as young as fifteen - were tasered on the streets of London in the first eight months of 2008. For those of you unfamiliar with the device, the taser is a small pistol-like unit that delivers an excrutiatingly painful five-second burst of electricity (up to fifty thousand volts worth) which instantly drops any target, lights up every single one of their pain-receptors and turns them into a shrieking, quivering mess on the ground. All muscle control goes and even after the power is turned off, the target is left shaking and drooling for several moments. The effects wear off after a few minutes, and there is no evidence that any permanent harm is done to the tasered person, apart from the retention of an extremely strong impression that they really don't want to be tasered again anytime soon.
   Some of the more illuminated sections of our society aren't happy with this, and feel that this figure is inexcusably high and that tasering is no way to treat a wayward teenager. I disagree. Having encountered some of the mouthy gangs of juvenile pondlife on street corners here in Lambeth, I'm of the opinion that a figure of twenty-six is nowhere near high enough and that tasering is the only way to treat a wayward teenager.
   In fact, I believe that all teenagers between the ages of fifteen and nineteen should be given a quick five-second breakdance on the end of a taser wire once every few months or so as a matter of routine. Those kids who regularly skip school should be the first ones targeted, with some sort of regular, structured, classroom-based tasering phased in over the next few years. This, I feel, would be wonderfully character-building for the little gobshites, as well as providing them with an excellent sense of perspective. There are also many benefits to had for the police too, not least of which being the doubly painful (and visually impressive) 'arcing' effect that will occur from any concealed blade the little toerags may be carrying.
   Teenagers often complain about how 'boring' and 'unfair' their life is. Trust me, kids - fifty thousand volts up the jacksie can be considered many things, bot 'boring' isn't one of them. No, I've given this some serious thought and I'm happy that this is the only way forward. Ultimately, I reckon an organised programme of routine youth-zapping would contribute greatly to the overall reduction of crime in the Capital.
   Who knows, it might even clear their acne up, too.

Well, I think we can safely start calling this 'credit crunch' a recession now, don't you? The mighty MFI went to the wall yesterday and they've been closely followed by Woolworths, who, after ninety-nine years, have finally gone under. Much is being made in the papers of the demise of these two giants and how it shows that this economic downturn is going to be far worse than anyone can imagine. Probably, but in the case of MFI and Woolies, the problems were, in my opinion, a touch closer to home. To wit; they were run by idiots. MFI has for years tried to make a living flogging four-hundred quid sofas by spending hundreds of thousands of pounds on television advertising stuffed into every programme break on every Bank Holiday. They always tried to convince us that the four-hundred quid sofa you were looking at was a bargain because they'd hidden it at the back of the warehouse for a day or two with a thousand pound price tag on it and then wheeled it back in and told you in excited tones about the fantastic six-hundred pound saving. Believe it or not, this sort of shrill, hysterical selling was amazingly popular in the Seventies. In today's world though, nobody over the age of twelve was taken in by it. Unfortunately, nobody under the age of twelve has four hundred quid for a sofa, or would purchase one if they had, so bye bye MFI and hello to somewhat quieter Boxing Day telly.
   Woolworths, on the other hand, have only themselves to blame and I'm surprised they lasted as long as they did. They simply didn't know what they wanted to be. They wanted to compete with HMV as a music store yet they only sold the top forty. They wanted to compete with Homebase as a hardware store yet only sold bulbs and plugs. About all they were shifting at the end was pic n' mix, and sorry, but foam shrimps and fizzy cola bottles ain't gonna keep a one hundred and twenty-five store empire afloat, are they? So adios to another dinosaur.
   Never fear though, I'm sure there'll be plenty more big names following suit over the coming twelve months or so. Firms who simply have no idea about either their product or the current state of the market. Take Sony UK for example, who steadfastly refuse to allow the big supermarkets to discount the PS3 and then remove the backwards-compatibility chip from all the new models just in time for Christmas, so that new buyers can no longer play their old PS2 games on them. Great move from the Japanese parent company, there! Or Honda UK who have, astoundingly, put the average price of their motorcycles up by two hundred quid just as Alistair Darling knocks two and a half percent off the VAT to try and tempt us to part with our cash. Utterly baffling.
   Finally, while I'm on the subject of our beloved badger-faced Chancellor and the eye-watering amount of debt he's saddling the nation with, Let me remind you what the late, great Winston Churchill had to say on the subject. He said that 'trying to spend one's way out of a recession was akin to a man standing in a bucket and trying to pick himself up by the handle.' Quite. It's going to be a fun 2009, people.
   Merry Christmas to you and your debt.

In an idle moment today, I decided to price-up my once-in-a-lifetime dream holiday: a month in Japan. Unfortunately, it all fell apart at the British Airways website. (*adopts best Columbo accent*) See, there's something I just don't understand. How come I can get an Economy flight for just shy of five hundred notes, yet Business Class costs over fifteen hundred and First Class is knocking on for five grand. Yet - and please excuse me if I've got the wrong end of the stick here - you're all on the same plane. So basically, the difference between five hundred and five grand would appear to be limited to soft furnishings, menu choice and attention from the waitress, correct? I'm sorry, but even being spoon-fed caviar by a topless Kelly Brook whilst reclining on a leather Chesterfield could not convince me to pay ten times more for what is basically the same service. Not when the chances are I'll be quietly sedated on liquid refreshments beforehand and will probably sleep for most of the trip anyway. How do airlines stay in business at these prices? I'm scratching my head here. Anyway, for those of you who've always wondered what the difference between Economy and First Class really was, there's your answer. A decimal point.

God bless the Freedom Of Information Act (2000) for allowing me to share this one with you. Ok, as you know, in 2012 London will be hosting the Olympics (an event that has virtually bankrupted every city it's touched since Montreal in '76, but I digress) Anyway, figures for the past twelve months have shown that a sum of eighty-seven million pounds has been paid to a 'consultancy' firm to - and I swear I'm not making this up - 'ensure that the cost of the London Olympics 2012 are kept down'. Now, given that the lowest-paid member of this eight-strong 'Senior Management Team' at the ODA (Olympic Delivery Authority) was paid £243,000, I have to ask - and quite reasonably, I feel - WTF? Because if the object of this quango is to find ways of keeping the cost to the London taxpayer (that'd be me) down, then I for one can think of one really easy way of saving, ooh, say £87,000,000. Anyone else spot it?

Every time I think that the pseudo-Socialist numpties running this country, and, more specifically, my organisation, can't possibly get any more vacuous and inane, they manage to pull something extra out of the bag and surprise me. We were all informed today of a new 'multi-faith and contemplation room' available for our use, should we require a bit of a skive, sorry, 'thoughtful meditation space'. Apparently, the room was the brain-child of a collaboration between our 'Diversity and Citizen Focus Directorate' and (and I promise, I'm not making this up) 'S.A.M.U.R.A.I' (Support Associations Meeting Up Regularly And Interacting). I honestly have no idea whether the group or the acronym came first, but fair play to them. If you're going to take the piss, at least do it with style. You know, I honestly believe that, rather than cringing with shame and embarrassment when this new area was opened (we called them 'Common Rooms' in my day), the people behind it actually would've sat there with a warm glow of self-righteous smugness. S.A.M.U.R.A.I. For fuck's sake. It's times like these that I'm actually glad that the economy is collapsing, as over-promoted, under-achieving project co-ordinators such as the idiots behind this venture are traditionally the first to get handed their P45s. I for one will happily sit in the Balham soup-kitchen behind one of these dobbers in five years time, ripping the piss out of them. Perhaps they can come up with a trendy acronym for their new group? How about T.U.R.B.O.T.S. (Totally Unemployable Retarded Buffoons On The Skids)? Works for me.

A rare victory for common sense this week, as Channel Four was vindicated in the courts over it's televising of it's 'Despatches' programme, 'Undercover Mosque'. For those of you who missed it, Channel Four sent an undercover film crew to infiltrate a supposedly 'mainstream' mosque in Birmingham, and were treated to such laid-back, illuminated opinions that women were 'deficient', ten-year-old girls who refuse to wear the hijab should be hit and that homosexuals should be 'thrown off mountains'. Astounded by this, the programme makers passed their tapes along to West Midlands Police, who promptly charged them with stirring up racial hatred. After the Old Bill and the CPS spent £14,000 of your money putting a case together, Ofcom immediatly saw sense and booted it out. Now West Midlands Police and the CPS have agreed to pay £100,000 damages, also out of the public purse, to a charity of Channel Four's choice and will both have to issue public apologies. Bizarrely, it is still being maintained that the comments made by the preachers in this oh-so-relaxed and enlightened 'mainstream' mosque were 'taken out of context'. Curiously, no-one has yet been forthcoming to explain exactly what the correct context might be...

Well, the local elections are over, the results are in, and it's abundantly clear that Nu-Labour has been given an almighty fisting by the electorate. The figures make grim reading (if you're a Socialist that is. Personally, I'm laughing my tits off). Gordon and his cronies were beaten into third place, taking just 24 per cent of the vote.The Conservatives got 44 per cent and the Liberal Democrats 25 per cent. This translates as an extra 1,474 seats for the Tories (an increase of 260), while the Lib Dems picked up another 34 (taking their total to 813). Labour, on the other hand, lost 333 seats and are now down to 1,019 which, if repeated in a General Election, would see a Conservative majority of 134.
   Now please don't think I'm sitting here gloating about a glorious Conservative future because I'm not. As far as I can see, the Tories have yet to set out exactly what they stand for and the Blair-lite clown leading them at the moment still hasn't said anything to convince me he's the boy to vote for come 2010. No, what this election came down to, first and foremost, was a chance for us all to show our unelected, promise-breaking 'Prime Minister' exactly what we thought of him, and boy, did we. Typically, Gordon popped up on Andrew Marr's programme to say how he would listen to our concerns from now on. Ah, so we'll now have that referrendum on Europe, will we, big man? Don't hold your breath. No, Gordon won't listen for one minute, because in his head, he is one hundred per cent right in everything he does and we are all simply too stupid to see it. Great! This means he'll carry on exactly as he has been and will be unemployed within two years. Marvellous. Wouldn't want to think he'd learn from his mistakes, would we?
   One person who is learing from his mistakes (and the mistakes of his predecessor) appears to be Boris Johnson, who has just announced that he's added Bill Brattan to the Mayoral pay-roll. Brattan is an ex-Commissioner of the NYPD and the man responsible for instigating the 'ComStat' crime targetting approach (look it up) approach of zero-tolerance, division based policing which dropped New York's crime figures through the floor and kept them there. Amusingly, one of the first things Boris did was to call a meeting with the Head Social Worker of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Ian Blair (I can't call him a 'Commissioner', that's a title I reserve for real policemen.) Don't be surprised if there's another Socialist picking up his P45 in the next few weeks. Go Boris!

I genuinely, sincerely cannot understand Gordon Brown. Not because he's a mumbling Scotchman, but because of his total and utter reluctance to actually do anything. The man has spent a whole decade - over a quarter of his life - mumbling and grumbling that his smarmy jug-eared mate really ought to move aside like he promised, and then when he finally gets what he wants, he simply sits there like a rabbit in the headlights watching everything unravel around him. Bizarre.
I had a mate like this. Every day after school we'd dash off to the chip shop to watch the big boys playing 'Defender' and 'Scramble' - the 10p-powered PlayStations of their day. Bless him, he'd jump up and down, breathlessly chanting 'Can I have a go? Can I have a go?' until finally, after being brow-beaten into submission, one of the big boys took pity on him and let him take the controls; at which point he'd stare transfixed at the screen, totally unwilling to press any buttons until, three seconds later, the aliens got him and the big boy took the game back. This is Brown right now. The man has the final say on everything that happens in this country for the next eighteen months at least. He has the keys to the castle. He is master of all he surveys. He could build a legacy that would echo into history in this time. Take us out of Europe, ban the bomb, scrap the absurd Human Rights act, bring back hanging - anything. Instead, there he stands, unblinking and impotent, waiting for the Martians (or in this case, the Tories) to put him out of his (and our) misery. Utterly baffling. At least when it all went tits-up for Nero, he got the violin out and knocked out a tune. This bloke is too paralysed even for that.

My organisation is toying with the idea of decking all us proles out in corporate clothing. I had a look at some of the samples today, and were I the type to be easily impressed by blue nylon and chunky knitwear, then I would've thought all my Christmases had come at once. Sadly though, I got as far as the sewn-on 'Forensics' badge on the sweater before a combination of anger and embarrassment made my lose interest. I mean, 'Forensics', for the love of God! Last time I looked, the word forensic was an adjective and so didn't warrant a plural form. You don't refer to yourself as being 'happys', do you? So why pick on the title my particular field of specialism as the starting point for your exercise in mutilating the English language? I can just imagine the sort of committee thinking that went into this. A table full of right-on middle management drones all banging on about corporate identity and section branding. Probably the same nobbers who ring me up telling me they've got a scene they need 'forensicating'. Fucking morons. Still, I should be grateful that they stopped at the redundant 's'. I've no doubt the next intake of graduate tossers - the 'txt spk' generation - will probably have us all decked out in '4Nzix 2012' logos just in time for the Olympics. Jesus, only another twenty-one years to retirement...

I've decided to stop buying newspapers. I mean, what's the bloody point? It's the same every day and I for one have had enough of shelling out a fiver a week to read about it. Another dead soldier in Iraq, gun-crime running rampant on Britain's streets (but only within the young black 'community', although you can't actually say that in case you're shouted down as a racist), global warming, rising house prices, uncontrolled immigration, yada yada yada. It's like Groundhog Day for me every morning when I get on the bus. I swear I've been reading the same bloody paper day-in, day-out since 2001. So I've made a decision. Save the wedge and have an extra half-hour's nap on the 133 every morning and use the cash to buy an extra bottle of wine every week. Ok, so I'm going to miss staring at Keeley Hazell's tits, but on the upside, I'll never have to look at Moss, Docherty, Jordan, Posh and all the other vacuous tossers that are apparently necessary to shift copies. All this and I get to do my bit at improving 'Thresher's' stock-control, too. Aces!

I lost count of the number of dedicated New Year Resolutionists I saw jogging round Tooting Bec on the way home this evening. Why do people do this to themselves every year? Ok, so you've put on a few pounds over the festive season - cut back a bit on the pies and booze, moderate your calorie intake and in a few weeks, you'll be back to where you were. Alternatively, join a gym. Make a lifestyle change and pump some iron. Anything has got to be better than turning yourself into one of those purple-faced wobbly clowns I saw gasping their way round the dirt-track earlier. Joggers will tell you that they live longer. Well, assuming the sudden coronary doesn't get them in the early stages, they can probably take comfort from the fact that spending an hour a day jogging could increase their life expectancy by...oh, by about as much as all those wasted hours added up. Worse than the joggers, though, were the 'mature' couple I saw going through their new 'thing' - Tai-Chi. Who the hell came up with that one? Slow-motion Kung Fu for Geriatrics. Deeply weird.

Teenage 'Green Day' fans - when considering your next pair of combats, why not go for a pair where the crotch actually starts somewhere above your knees? That way, you might stand a chance of being able to ride that expensive, pristeen-wheeled skateboard you're carrying around (the one that Daddy bought) instead of having it perennially tucked under your fucking arm, you sad little twat...

Five years ago this would've made me laugh. Now? Merely resigned, numb and slightly sad. Trading Standards officers from Powys County Council in Wales have ordered Black Mountains Smokery; the makers of spicy 'Welsh Dragon Sausages', to rename their chilli, leek and pork bestseller. From now on, the product must be labelled as 'Welsh Dragon Pork Sausages'. Why? According to a Trading Standards spokesman "The product was not sufficiently precise to inform a purchaser of the true nature of the food". In other words, the company was at risk of prosectuion unless it categorically stated on it's packaging that the sausages don't actually contain any dragon. There is so much I could add here, but it's late at night and I'm simply too tired...

I've long since realised that the Scots are 'running' this country, but it's only just dawned on me that they've bagged the BBC, too. Did you notice in the recent Wimbledon coverage how Tim Henman was always 'Britain's Tim Henman', but that Andy 'misgyno-racist' Murray was always referred to as'The young Scot'? Isn't he British as well? Or is that term only reserved for us English wankers? As if to add insult to injury, the exact moment after I'd made this observation, I was given the results from the Scottish Premier League before a Scottish weather-girl began her report by commenting on how many hours of sunshine Edinburgh had had. Come back Hadrian, all is forgiven...

Jamie Manderson, eh? What a star! This thirty-three year old piece of shit has just clocked up his 48th offence for driving whilst disqualified and been jailed for five months and handed a two-year ban. So far, so New Labour, I hear you cry, but driving while disqualified is the least of this prick's claim to fame. Apparently, over the last eighteen years, Jamie has amassed one hundred and ninety-eight seperate convictions ranging from dodgy motoring to armed robbery. Let's just reflect on that for a moment, shall we? Nearly two hundred convictions and this bloke will be on the streets again by Bonfire Night. Come on! It's not just me, is it? How many more misdemeanors will this clown be allowed to commit before somebody decides he is a serial liability and removes him from decent society for good? With this Government in charge, probably about the time that Wolves win the Premiership. I wonder how many kids he's got? And who's paying for them? Just think; two hundred years ago, Jamie would have been an Australian citizen by now...or on the end of a noose. Ah, the good old days. Worth putting up with rickets for in my opinion.

I don't have a problem with thirteen year old girls from council estates getting pregnant so long I don't have to pay for them. In an idea world, we should be forcibly spaying these children the moment they give birth. How many times have we seen one of these pathetic little specimens standing by their 'oh-so-proud' unemployed thirty-year old mum and forty-five-year old granny with a Marlboro on the go cooing about how marvellous they think the whole idea of lumbering the idiot tax-payer with another pointless mouth to feed is? No, I say sterilise them and then we can let them get on with their shabby little Gregg's-eating existence safe in the knowledge that we won't have to shell out again in another twelve months when their alcopop-fuelled shagging produces another future ASBO case. I mean, it's not as if these kids are going to grow up to discover a cure for cancer or colonise Mars, is it? Look at the genetic material the fuckers are working with, for a start. Thirteen year old chav-scum mum; fifteen year old joyrider dad (no doubt with another three kids by another three brainless brood-mares.) These things are a biological dead-end, aren't they? A modern-day equivalent to the Neanderthal - vaguely human in appearance, but not equipped with the same tools as it's smarter human cousins.  It's a shame, but hey, if you mate a rodent with another rodent, it doesn't produce a thoroughbred race-horse, does it? No, it produces yet another rodent and personally, I reckon the rat-bank is just about full now, so some sort of population-control is the only way forward. It's either that or culling. And if you think this is a bit harsh, you should've read the first draft when I was really fired up. At least I've now come round to the idea of letting Chantelle-Marie keep her ratspawn and not having the doctors take it away to use as an organ bank for real people...

The way I see it, old Gordon Brown has a bit of a problem on his hands. Because of his creative accounting (read: 'theft'), most of us will have to keep working until we're eligible for a telegram from Her Maj because there's no money left in the pot to pay us a pension. A quandary for any Chancellor, I'm sure you'll agree. Now, not that I wish to help the fat Scottish highwayman out of his predicament or anything, but it occurs to me that there's a very cheap and simple way out of this corner he's painted himself into. Have the Government nationalise Gregg's Bakeries. Think about it; If the State were to take over every Gregg's in every high street up and down the land, they could distribute free cakes and pasties to anyone who walked in off the street. A few years of this and the chance of anyone living to retirement age will have plummeted. Of course, since this will chiefly affect the unemployed (they have a lot more shopping time on their hands), Gordon may feel a tad uncomfortable about targeting key Labour voters in this way. Then again, he can easily readdress the balance by subsidising all the remaining Civil Service canteens and having them provide free fry-ups every morning. That way, in just a few short years, he will have created the ideal Chancellor's society. Everybody fat and happy while they're working and dead before they become a financial burden. Hurrah! Mine's a Steak Bake... 

Have you noticed how there are no real competitions on the products you buy anymore? Over the last few years, traditional 'open now and see if you've won' promotions have given way to these coded-entry things. Every time you see some cash or a car up for grabs on the side of a crisp packet or chocolate bar, it's always a case of texting a code that you find printed on the wrapper to a premium-rate phone number. They usually have the audacity to say something along the lines that there are 'One Million Prizes to be Won!'. No there aren't. You aren't 'winning' anything; you're simply paying an extra 25p of your own money on top of the cost of your crisps for an arbitrary and unquantifiable entry in a virtual game of chance. Of the 'million' prizes; let's face it, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty are simply going to be another bag of crisps, which you could have gone and bought for the same cost as the text message you just sent attempting to win them. The worst offenders are Rowntree's, the makers of 'Kit-Kat', who don't even bother to offer you a faux-win, they simply ask you to collect as many 'Kit-Kat' wrappers as you can and use them as 'bids' on their great 'prizes'. Whoopee. So the more chocolate wafers you buy, the better your chance of coming away with a new car that you don't really want anyway. This isn't a competition, it's a fucking raffle. The only difference is that other raffles don't require you to shell out for three grand's worth of crap chocolate in order to enter...

I swore I wouldn’t insult my own intelligence (or yours, dear readers) by referring to any more brain-dead reality television programmes on this site again, but last night’s culmination of ‘Celebrity Big Brother IV’ deserves a special mention, given that the winner, a stereotypical orange-faced blonde Essex airhead named Chantelle Houghton was in fact a stooge from a fictional girl-band who’d been planted in the house as a gag to see if the real celebs (and I use the term loosely) could see through her. They couldn’t and she won, beating Michael Barrymore (and wouldn’t we all just love to do that) into second place. This means that Chantelle is now £25, 000 richer and can look forward to a load of lucrative TV work and a stint on the chat show and party circuits, which in these shallow times is all that’s required to make her a celebrity anyway. This is what is known as irony, although Chantelle would no doubt disagree (that is, if she could spell it.) Still, at least everyone was spared the sight of that odious George Galloway winning the thing. With a bit of luck, his leotard-wearing escapades and hilarious cat impression will mean we won’t be hearing too much from Saddam’s pal in the near future. Meanwhile, coming soon – ‘Big Brother VII’. I’ve pointed out before that a goat is so stupid it will watch a barn door swing back and forth in the breeze until it passes out from sheer exhaustion. Channel Four viewers unfortunately have to make do with Davina McCall. Baaa!

It's 2006, and a landmark time in the one-hundred-and-four year history of my department. For this is the year when we, as a photographic firm, finally do away with film and embrace the future of digital imaging. Now before you all think I'm going to go all Luddite and say that the quality of digital isn't as good as a proper negative, you couldn't be more wrong. The new Nikon D2X they've given me to play with is the tits. It's a three grand, sixteen megapixel monster and it fucking rocks. Nope, I love digital. I'm all for diving headlong into a future technological trend, just so long as I can be sure it's going to last (anyone remember the Sinclair C5 - the future of personal transport?) The only problem I have with digital is with archiving. Allow me to explain. In our department, we have negatives dating back to the turn of the twentieth century and I can easily take one of these into the darkroom and produce a print off it just as simply as any previous employee could've done, and indeed did, at any time during the last ten decades. The concern I have over digital is that nobody can tell me for sure how long the storage media will last. When NASA had a big spring-clean back in the Eighties, they backed up a lot of their rapidly corroding magnetic tape-based information (you remember; the old 'Joe 90' type machines) and stuck the data onto gold-plated CDs. Unfortunately, when they came to check out some information last year; trivial stuff like how exactly they'd built the Saturn 5 rockets back in the Sixties (the paper blueprints had long been destroyed), they found that it wasn't there anymore. It had gone. Vanished. The same was true of a good third of the entire recorded datastream from the Viking Mars probes. It simply didn't exist anymore because the CDs they'd stuck it on had decayed. The end results of a multi-billion dollar space programme lost forever. Now I know in the grand scheme of things, no image I ever take is ever going to be as important as that, but it would be nice to think that when I retire in twenty-five years time, someone will be able to look back at my impressive catalogue of work and say 'That Billy was one hell of a photographer!' as opposed to 'Well we know you did something here during your career, Fish, we just can't fucking find any of it...' Slightly worrying, don't you think?

The playing of the hymn 'Jerusalem' could be banned at England's home tests against Pakistan next year in case any Pakistani Muslims are offended by the 'build Jerusalem in this green and pleasant (?) land' bit. Meanwhile, a CD of the same hymn sung by the Ashes-winning side is a hot tip for a Christmas Top Ten slot with all the proceeds going to - you guessed it - the Pakistan earthquake relief fund. Nothing like a bit religious tolerance in this wonderful Socialist paradise of ours, is there?

I love the way that local councils these days seem to delight in finding ever more ludicrous ways to piss your money up the wall. I’ve just read that more than a million pounds is being spent across Northumberland, Cumbria and Yorkshire as part of the ‘Red Alert Conservation Campaign’, which is aiming to ensure the survival of our native red squirrel by creating 'buffer zones’ in which they can live and breed without being chased out by their larger and more common cousins. A million quid wasted simply to try and preserve a different flavour of furry tree-rat. Wouldn't it be cheaper to just dye all the grey ones?

We received an email at work this week from the Big Giant Head saying that changes are afoot. He didn't say what these changes would be, as they haven't been decided upon yet, but we were to be aware that whatever these changes turned out to be, they would be implemented and in place by April 1st next year (how apt). Re-organisation; don't you just love it? We get a lot of reorganisation where I work, usually from arseholes who have just been promoted from somewhere else (by the wankers mentioned below) and who have no idea what it is that we do. Strange, but have you noticed that every form of workplace reorganisation comes from gits like this? This is because all those people who can confidently get on with doing their job are too busy actually doing it to fuck around with things, and those who can't do it that well are too busy keeping their heads down to avoid being sussed out. This leaves a particular breed of clueless, interfering twat to come along with their second-class Business Degree and ace an under-attended interview by spouting cliche'd buzz-phrases like 'Performance Indicators', 'Restructuring' and 'Business Excellence Models'. If only we could apply the Kenny Everett principle with these strokers: "Round 'em up, put 'em in a field and bomb the bastards!"

When I started work we had a 'Manpower' unit. Then, sometime in the nineties, they became 'Personnel'. A couple of years ago they changed their name once more to 'Human Resources'. Another few years and the political correctness will be complete and I can look forward to having my records looked after by the 'Carbon-Based Bipedal Lifeform Logistics Conclave'. Sweet.

This Government's getting better and better, isn't it? The latest brainwave from old badger-chops Alastair Darling is a proposed 75dB noise limit on motorcycle exhausts, which would effectively remove Ducati and Harley-Davidson from British roads to name but two. Darling's idea comes hot on the heels of his proposal that we all pay by the mile for the privilege of driving. Where does this bloke get them from? Does he come up with these things during some sort of opium-induced coma, or what? If he really fancies reducing the noise on British roads, then he could start by doing something about those bastards with car stereos so fucking loud the vibrate your windscreen, let alone theirs. Thanks to Big Al and his chums in the Ministry for Transport it's now a dangerous offence to drive with one hand off the wheel as you answer your mobile, but apparently it's all tickety-boo to have your internal organs resonating at seven hertz as you zoom along, totally unable to hear any ambulance that may be coming. Will he be doing anything about these jokers? Will he cock! He knows damn well that the main culprits of this antisocial behaviour are of a certain , ahem, 'ethnic background', so there's no way he'll risk the Government being labelled as 'racist' by ordering the police to clamp down on them. Meanwhile, all the decent law-abiding motorcyclists out there find themselves swapping the Fireblade for a Vespa in the next couple of years to ensure quieter roads for everyone. Everyone apart from the Radio Brixton boys in their Five-Series BMWs, that is.

If the London Congestion Charge is designed solely to coax people onto public transport and discourage motorists from bringing their cars into the city, rather than simply being a cynical tax that was recently increased by three quid a day to fund the 2012 Olympics, then how come they've started to offer discount tickets if you pay monthly or annually? Obvious, isn't it? Ken doesn't give a toss whether or not you drive into London as long as you dip your hand in your pocket for the privilege. Why doesn't he start taxing cyclists, eh? Surely by now he's figured out that they're using the roads for free while everyone else is coughing up? Oh hang on...how does he get to work? Ah! Now things make sense...

Another summer and another new low for television. Not content with inflicting yet another series of the tired old 'Big Brother' on us, those oh-so-clever marketing bods have created another sure-fire winner - 'Celebrity Love Island'. In case you haven't heard, the premise is that they've collected together an assorted bunch of Z-list vermin whose only claims to fame seem to be shagging other Z-list vermin, stuck them on a tropical island and will then film them over a fortnight to see if any 'love' happens. Oh fuck off! Why don't the pony-tailed tools behind this latest round of barrel-scraping have the courage of their convictions and just stick hardcore scud films on every evening? Instead of shelling out £100,000 for Rebecca Loos and Abi fucking Titmuss to wander round in their bikinis trying to tempt George Best's son to nob them (again), they should stick a couple of hours of grot on the moment old Trevor McDonald bids us all goodnight. It'd be loads cheaper and it would undoubtedly top the ratings which is the whole point. More importantly, if they did follow this path, at least we'd all know when we were looking at a penis and not have to waste time reading the 'hosted by Patrick Kielty' caption.

Few things annoy me more than a celebrity playing the 'poor me' card. You know what I mean; people with money and lifestyles that the likes of you and I can only dream of regaling all and sundry in the media about the latest trivial episode in their shallow little lives, usually for a fee and a centre page feature in the Sunday papers. This week we were treated to Gail Porter's tale. You remember her - the little owl-faced Scottish bint famous for showing her arse on the cover of every men's magazine in the late '90s and presenting Channel 4's 'The Big Breakfast' long after Chris Evans, Gaby Roslin, Paula Yates and anyone else remotely watchable had left. Hell, even Zig & Zag had fucked off by the time Gail had her fifteen minutes. Anyway, there she was this week with the 'heartbreaking' tale of how her husband had walked out after three years of marriage leaving her all alone (apart from the au pair and the large bank-balance) with their ludicrously-named little girl, Honey. How did she get through this turmoil? How did the brave little thing go about putting her life back on track? By downing a bottle of vodka and some pills in a 'desperate cry for help'. Then, predictably, it was off to the Priory Clinic for a week or two before bravely appearing in public to sell her story and pose for a few pictures - sans make-up - to show the terrible strain she's been under. The more I read, the angrier I got and the more I found myself wondering why her bloke had even stayed with her this long. Having had first-hand experience of this type of clingy, over-emotional little woman in the past myself, I can only sympathise with her ex, Dan Hipgrave, and would encourage him to sue for custody of his little girl as soon as his solicitor opens for business tomorrow. There are thousands of women every year who find themselves having to bring up a child alone without access to Gail's sort of money and amazingly, the vast majority of them manage to rebuild their lives and be a good mother without feeling the need to reach for the drinks cabinet and the Anadin. If she really needs her life putting into perspective, I suggest locking her in a hotel room with me for a weekend. I guarantee she'd soon be looking back on the 'traumatic' events of the last month as a fucking Golden Age...

New figures released this week show that Labour's spending on asylum and immigration has topped the £8 billion mark, which equates to an extra £320 in tax for every single household in Britain (apart from the ones occupied by the scroungers themselves, that is.) This means that the national spending in this area has increased by over 900% since they came to power in 1997. Nine hundred percent. There will be an election sometime this year. Please bear these figures in mind when you vote for Tony again because 'you've always voted Labour', or worse, don't even bother turning up at the polling station. If we end up with another half a decade of these jokers, you'll only have yourselves to blame...

I find the lack of imagination displayed by today's youth particularly disappointing. When I was a lad, we didn't have computers and PlayStations and had to amuse ourselves by pretending we were Jedi Knights with the aid of a couple of broom handles, or by going to the park and lurking around on the swings until it got dark when we could be 'X-Wing' pilots. These days, the kids are a lot lazier and can't be bothered with all the hassle of thinking, preferring the lure of instant gratification instead. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the disappearance of the ancient rituals of adolescent swearing. I feel sorry for the teenagers out there right now effing and blinding without a good run-up. It's all 'fuck you, motherfucker' at the drop of a hat; where's the fun in that? There's no banter. No style. I blame the all those American television shows for this lowering of standards. I want them to bring back the cussing we had in the early Eighties, when you could kick the evening's proceedings off by calling Darren Parkes a 'moon-headed spastic' and crank it up gradually from there. 'Bummer', 'mongoloid', 'dick splash' and 'fanny fart' were all excellent building-blocks that could be combined and re-arranged to form any number of killer combos, until, after a getting yourself off to a shaky start with 'Nob off, Taylor, you big puff', you would find youself ten minutes later effortlessly unleashing such classics as 'Ginger, you fat gaylord pissflap wankstain, your Mom's a fat lezza prozzie and your window-licking Dad sucks dog-shit through a tramp's sock!' You see the level of skill and commitment that this Americanisation of our swearing has cost us? You see what we've lost? The art has gone out of it forever. Personally, I still can't figure out why an 'ass' is no longer a small donkey but a description of one's rear. In my day we had 'arseholes'...

Designer clothing - I simply can't get my head around the fact that there are people who will happily pay four or five times more than me for an item of clothing simply because it has a trendy label on it. Maybe it's just me being an old fart, but I can't fathom why anyone would choose to walk round with a huge 'Diesel' or 'Evisu' logo splashed across their chest and pay serious wedge for the privilege of doing so. Are these people so bereft of personality that they view this as some sort of validation of self-worth? 'Look at me, my moribund little existence is so wrapped up in the clothes I wear that I actually pay these manufacturers to advertise their products for them.'  Worse still are those idiots who stroll round in 'Anti-Fit' clothing with their crotch hanging down by their knees like circus clowns on day-release just because they're the 'in' thing. Jesus, if they got any shallower, they'd evaporate. I have a mate who is always in the latest labels and never misses an opportunity to remind me of the fact. He will happily stand there in some non-descript black t-shirt with a little squiggle embossed on his right tit and point out that he's paid more for that than I have for my entire outfit, all the time wearing a smug smile on his fat face. Ok, so you paid £100 for five seconds of stitching by some nine-year-old girl in a back-street sweat-shop in Shanghai and you're laughing at me? Sorry, chief, but the needle on my twat-compass is only pointing one way right now, know what I mean?

Oh boy, there goes the blood-pressure again. Here we are in the run-up to Christmas and all the Left-wing wankers are positively falling over themselves to rename the 25th of December in case it offends the delicate sensitivities of any poor non-Christian out there. You all remember when the New Labour bell-ends at Birmingham City Council re-branded Christmas as 'Winterval' back in '96 (Birmingham's Bull-Ring owners have just banned Father Christmas, by the way. Anyone surprised?)  The latest tossers to jump on the 'I despise my own nationality' bandwagon are the arses who run Cornwall's top tourist attraction, The Eden Project, who have renamed Christmas as the 'Time of Gifts'. Given that the entire fucking site has taken it's name from the Christian Bible in the first place, you'd think that they'd have seen the irony in falling for such PC bollocks, wouldn't you? Still, what do you expect from a business consortium who charges gullible vegetarians £15 to visit the world's biggest garden centre? What makes me laugh - and what anyone with even the most perfunctory grasp of British history and comparitive religion will tell you - is that what we celebrate on December 25th is the old Saxon festival of Yule, the mid-winter feast, when everyone got so sick of the cold that they all slaughtered a few animals, cracked open the mead and had a party to relieve the boredom. The early Christians merely nicked the idea and subverted it in order to gain a few easy converts. (As for Father Christmas, the whole 'fat, jolly bloke in the red suit' thing was a rather successful marketing campaign by the Coca-Cola company back in 1931 that just kind of stuck.) Maybe if a few more Guardian readers were to read something other than their so-called newspaper, they'd realise that by ignoring 'Christmas', they were surpressing the right of worship of all the good, Odin-fearing Saxons out there. Religious oppression from your friendly neighbourhood Socialists? Perish the thought!

The latest chapter in New Labour's 'Do As I Say, Not As I Do' book illustrates the hypocracy of the party perfectly. While certain of us in the Civil Service are being told to cut back on overtime and are having to piss off on time leaving jobs half-done until the following day, we find that certain MPs with a basic salary of £57,485 are claiming anywhere up to £169,899 per year in 'expenses'. A survey by the Daily Express showed that, apart from a solitary member of the Scottish Parliament, the Top Ten expense fiddlers (sorry, claimers) were all Labour MPs. What really gets me is that the only time I made an expense claim this year was for representing my organisation by attending a national conference that I didn't want to go to anyway. I had to pay for two nights accommodation at a fucking Novotel out of my own pocket and then claim it back when I returned. The conference was in May. I was finally reimbursed in October. Perhaps I should've signed the form Billy The Fish MP instead. That way I too might be the owner of five properties like Keith bloody Vaz, instead of rotting away in a rented flat in fucking Streatham. There is quite obviously going to be an investigation over these claims, but which do you think it'll be? A Fraud Squad investigation by the Old Bill leading to prosecutions and convictions or an internal inquiry that finds no wrongdoing whatsoever and results in whoever chairs the inquiry getting a Peerage in the next honours list? Answers on a postcard...

How many motorway maintenance men does it take to change a lightbulb? Forty-seven. One to change the bulb and forty-six to cone off an entire lane of the fucking motorway for four miles before the actual light. Yes, I know it's not funny. It wasn't funny being stuck in a jam on the M6 from junctions 6 to 10 for an hour and a half, either. The stretch of motorway around Birmingham is in an almost perpetual state of repair, owing to the maintenance contract constantly going to the lowest bidder, who then sub-contracts it down and down until it ends up with Paddy O'Reilly and his brother who'll sort it out for thirty quid, so they will sir. Consequently, we all have to sail slowly past mile after mile of untouched, coned-off road until we get to the handful of grubby dossers in yellow jackets doing the square-root of fuck-all on the hard-shoulder. In Japan, when a motorway needs repairing, the maintenance company has it's men working swing shifts 24/7 until the job is complete, which is always is on time and on budget. The reason we don't do this over here is that it would deny Plod the opportunity to plant a few more Gatso's and screw us for £40 for diving three miles an hour over the 40mph roadworks limit. Chance would be a fucking fine thing! I didn't get out of second fucking gear all the way from Fort Dunlop to Wednesbury today. I wouldn't mind if I'd been spoiled by beautiful Highland scenery along the way, but this is the Black Country. Every time Queen Victoria passed through on her way to Balmoral, she used to order the train curtains drawn. That was over a hundred years ago and trust me, things ain't improved!

What a great country we live in. The mother of all parliaments has this week been heatedly debating the most important topic in today's society. Never mind that statistics for violent crime have gone through the roof or that our education system is unable to ensure that a child can spell it's own name by the age of sixteen. Never mind that the NHS is collapsing under the weight of middle-management bureaucracy while people slowly rot with MRSA on the wards (or more commonly, the corridors). No, obviously what the people really want is a full on cross-party free-for-all on that most crucial of all issues - fox-hunting. Jesus. Still, it will no doubt distract all us plebs from worrying about how we'll be able to feed ourselves come retirement now that Gordon has stolen all the pensions, right Tone?

Well, the local elections have taken place and Tony Blair has seen his policy of 'I know best because you're all monkeys' get the collective finger from the voting public. Even with Fat Boy Prescott's blatent attempts to rig the postal ballots, New Labour still got a spanking. In his typical asinine way, though, the only thing Tony can think of in his defence is to have yet another pop at the Tories. The tactic he's now using is to try and scare us by implying that under a Conservative government, there will be widespread job losses in the public services. Well, yes there will be. It'll be all the Guardian-reading gender reassignment counsellors and five-a-day fruit and veg co-ordinators and good fucking riddance, too. Still, why is it that we all go along with the thought that it's got to be either Tony or Michael come the next election? Personally, I think it's about time we gave someone else a go at running the show (and I don't mean that ginger Scottish fool, either - the Lib Dems are merely 'Diet Labour'; all the same ingredients and none of the fizz.) How would you like it if every single day of your life, you had to choose either beef or pork? 'What about chicken? What about fish?', you'd cry. 'Why can't we have a pizza or a curry?' Exactly. There are other choices out there, people, and I for one don't care which way you vote so long as you actually get of your arses and do it. Less than a quarter of eligible voters turned out this time. Are you all really that happy with things? I'm not. I mean, when the government's own figures show that out of 88,000 new jobs in the education sector, only 4,000 are actually teachers, then it's time for a bit of a change in my book. Bring back Lord Sutch! At least he had the decency to tell everyone he didn't have a fucking clue before they voted for him!

I've spouted off against industry fat cats earning huge sums for doing bugger-all before, but the comments made by England Coach and lover of all things saggy and Swedish, Sven Goran Eriksson, beggar belief. After just being awarded £5 million a year for the next four years to carry on his duties as the national boss, he turns round and warns the fans not to expect glory in the European Championships. Apparently, the highest paid coach in international football is 'amazed' that English fans have such high expectations. 'They have only ever won once and that was forty years ago', he observed. He went on to insist that the team are 'not among the favourites' and has already prepared an excuse ('player burn-out') for the inevitable disappointing performance. Well, fucking hell! The FA are paying twenty million quid to hear that we're crap and Sven can't do anything about it. They could've saved a fortune by giving me the job. For a tenth of that, I would've explained in much greater depth about how shite we are and could even have been trusted to keep my knob out of Ulrika Jonsson while doing so. 

Modern Art. The latest exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery has just opened. Entitled 'New Blood', it is described as a showcase for the best new and contemporary British talent. So what fascinating glimpses of cutting edge art will you be seeing for your twenty-six quid entrance fee? Well, there's a painting of a heroin victim with blood running from her nostrils, a rope made from fifty-four toilet rolls and a globe fashioned from compressed rat carcasses. You can also see Tracy Emin's unmade bed and Damian Hirst's half a sheep while you're there, too. A thrilling afternoon, I'm sure you'll agree and all brought to you by Nigella Lawson's husband, Mr. Charles Saatchi; the man who helped to make Margaret Thatcher Prime Minister. The fucker has a lot to answer for...

Not only are I.Q.'s heading downhill, but attention spans seem to be on their way south, too. Have you noticed that after every news bulletin we have two weather forecasts within an advertising break of one another? What the fuck is that all about? First the national one and then the local one (which gives you a national report anyway.) If, like me, you live in the London area, then it's the same bloody person doing it - usually that ginger Welsh tart (the one with the gob like the Joker from Batman.) Why are they doing this? Is the weather that unpredictable that it's going to radically change in the time it takes for Linda bleeding Barker to flog us whatever tat she's hawking this week? Can't we just go back to what they used to do when they needed to kill time and stick a 'Tom & Jerry' cartoon on instead? I guarantee the viewing figures would be higher!

Crufts 2004 was won by a whippet, which is fair enough; it's a proper dog as opposed to one of those hairy, squash-faced yapper-type rodent things that tend to win dog-shows. Yet, typically, the poor animal has been cursed with a twat for an owner, who thought nothing of inflicting the monicker 'Cobyco Call The Tune' on the unfortunate creature. The proud winner, cursed with the equally ridiculous name of Lynne Yacoby-Wright (you all know my thoughts on double-barrelled names) confessed that the win wouldn't be changing either the dog or her. "She'll still sleep with her Mummy", the idiot woman trilled. One can only pray that she hasn't got children of her own...

It's have a pop at the National Lottery time again. No, tell you what, let's make this more interesting and have a little audience participation, shall we? I'll list three 'worthy causes' and you try and guess which one received sums of £191,600 and £336,200 respectively from the Lottery Community Fund. Ready? Was it...

• A charity for premature babies that applied for Lottery funding to finance a new neonatal unit?
• A halfway house built to provide a safe haven for victims of domestic abuse?
• A campaign fund set up to fight deportation orders issued against bogus asylum seekers?

What? You need a clue? Alright...'What does Cherie Blair do for a living?' There, easy wasn't it?

Having completed a course in Japanese last year at what my generation still affectionately refers to as 'night school', I found myself amazed by the vast range of courses on offer to anyone who can be arsed to give an extra hour or two one night a week. Apart from the languages, the guitar lessons and the photography classes, I happened to note that this year's prospectus now includes the dreaded 'Wine Tasting'. Now ever since that Jilly Goolden creature infested our screens a decade ago, this whole wine tasting thing has gotten out of hand. A wine tasting club used to consist of a dozen people all bringing a bottle and having a gulp of each other's offerings before wandering back to the bus-stop quietly pissed. In the last ten years, though, we've gone all 'aficianado' about it. There's all that 'sniffing the cork' crap, the decanting (totally unnecessary in any wine modern wine as there's no sediment), the swirling round the mouth and the spitting out. Where the fuck did all that come from? The whole point of wine - the entire reason it was created in the first place - is to get one swiftly and effectively wankered whilst still maintaining the illusion that one is being witty and erudite to one's surrounding company. It's not there to be swirled and spat. You wouldn't go to a five-star restaurant, nibble the fois gras and then stick you fingers down your throat, would you? (Well, not unless you were a supermodel, anyway.) Then there's all those insanely pretentious terms of description that the wankers use. All this 'jammy overtones' and 'cinnamon aftertaste' bollocks. Give me a fucking break! Six terms are all you need to categorise any wine. Red or White (fuck off with your 'Rose', you pretentious tool, you're merely mixing an iffy white with an average red and rebottling), Sweet or Dry and Fruity or Spicy - that's it. Finally, and speaking as someone who always keeps a dozen decent reds in the house, I can assure you that there is no noticible difference between a six quid bottle and a sixty quid one. You're only paying for the snob value. So long as you stay away from any two-ninety-nine supermarket specials, you're more than likely going to enjoy it. Right, now that lot is off my chest, I'm going for a pint. So pop down your local 'Thresher', get yourself a bottle of Cabernet-Shiraz (last year's Rosemount Estate is a stonker) and enjoy every last drop of the fucker. Whatever you do girls, remember - swallow, don't spit!

I'm really getting to hate all of those bastards who insist on owning a sodding great four-litre 4x4 when they live in the middle of a city. What in God's name do they think they're playing at? What possible use do they have for variable transmission, apart from making a quick getaway from their kid's school in the next street after they've dropped them off. And I bet they're really grateful for those huge great tyres when they have to mount the kerb to get their fat arses two paces nearer to the fucking cashpoint, aren't they? As for those bull bars on the front; well, when that rogue wildebeest thunders toward them down Chiswick High Street, at least they'll know that the collision damage on their metallic paint will be kept to a minimum. Finally, a special note to those with the top of the range model with the winch on the front. Why not use it to see if you can pull your head out of your arse, you twat.

Seeing John Lydon back in the limelight has made me realise what it is that is wrong with the youth of today. They're not rebelling against anything. They have no opinions. They don't watch the news or do anything other than just sit there happily being spoon-fed whatever crap MTV chooses to push their way. We have a nation of bland, beige teenagers who think that five miming pretty-boys dancing to a backing tape constitutes a band. Don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming the kids - the music is still there for them in bands like The Offspring and Green Day, it's just that the global multi-corporations who own the majority of the record companies prefer to stick to a formula they know and carry on pushing it. I just know I'm going to be having a bizarre conversation with my daughter fifteen years from now that'll be the exact opposite of the'turn that racket down' one that my generation had. I can just hear myself yelling at her to play something - anything -with a guitar in it, or get up and go and demonstrate against something.  It'll be 'Leave me alone, Dad, I'm on my PlayStation 5!'

I can't believe those ridiculous car adverts that I keep reading in the national press. The ones that offer you a brand new Ford or whatever and print in huge letters 'Only £199 a month for 36 months!' You then read the small print and find you have to stick two grand down before you start, not to mention the 'guaranteed future value of £5000' bit, which basically stings you for half the value of the car at the end. Unbelievably, people are queuing up to take advantage of this con-trick. Why don't the car companies take this charade to its logical conclusion? 'Only £5000 down and 1p a week for three years plus a guaranteed future value of £5000!' Or better still 'Only £10000 down and nothing else to pay - ever!'

Just how stupid can you get. British holiday-maker Samantha Marson, 21, is now facing six months in a U.S. jail for telling Miami airport officials she had three bombs in her bag. What an idiot! If she was that desperate for an invasive cavity search, I have several mates that would've been only too pleased to give her the old 'vet's handshake'. They'd even have bought her a drink beforehand, too...

At the risk of using this column to actually make a point; allow me to offer my view on the current University Tuition Fee debacle. Why not give a grant to those students who want to study something worthwhile that they can make a career out of and let the dossers finance themselves? Anyone reading Medicine, Law, Engineering etc. where they will actually be contributing to society at the end of it should be paid to study and fulfill their potential. Those loafing right-on wankers doing Sociology, Aromatherapy or fucking Media Studies can fork out for their own non-degree themselves or get Daddy to pay for it. Everyone with me? Good. Sorted. Off to the subsidised Student Union bar, then.

The latest promotion from Cadbury's is an absolute corker. The 'Get Active' programme aims to increase fitness in schoolchildren by allowing them to collect tokens which they can redeem for sporting equipment. Guess where they get the tokens from? Yep, on the chocolate wrappers. Better than that, any school wishing to take part in this promotion has to collect a minimum of 750 tokens before they can make a claim. So after the little porkers have munched their way through three hundred quids worth of sugary crap, their teacher can send off for a bunch of skipping ropes that they'll all be too fat to use. Classic!

I love the way the media keeps referring to the underachieving Canadian tennis 'ace' Greg Rusedski as 'Britain's Number Two Player'. What a laughable title that is. Britain is not exactly renowned for it's tennis players, is it? We're the only country that does this - overrates the abilities of our crap sportsmen. You never hear the world press alluding to 'Egypt's Number Two Ski-Jumper' or 'Holland's Top Mountaineer', do you? Of course not. They ignore their losers. Ours get the MBE...

So I'm scoping out the January Sales looking for a bargain in WHSmith and what do I see? One of those 'Z'-list celebrity fitness DVDs being offloaded for the bargain price of £5.99. Nothing wrong with that, you might think. Bit of a bargain there, Fish. Best you get one in and work off those Christmas pounds, you fat nosher. Well, that's all very well until I tell you that the 'celebrity' in question was none other than Jade Goody - the council estate swamp-donkey from 'Big Brother' a couple of series back. I had a look at the box just to see if she'd suddenly become a svelte sex-goddess due to some miracle training regime, but no, it was the same chubby shunter I remembered from last year's tabloids. Now you've got to admire her agent for securing her a gig like that, but who the hell do they think is going to buy it? 'You too can have a figure like Jade Goody!' is hardly going to incite anyone to part with their wedge, is it? Save on your electricity bill and spend the six quid down the pie shop.

Another one of those fatuous 'Top 100 of Everything' programmes is on next week and this time the proletariat are invited to ring in and vote for their favourite comedy programme. You just know how this is going to go, don't you? Current wank like 'Bo Selecta' and the painfully unfunny 'The Office' will be riding high in the top ten, while genuine classics such as 'The Fast Show' and 'Father Ted' will be nowhere in sight, as the teenage pond-life that phone these type of shows have absolutely no recollection of anything that happened beyond last week. This is the reason why the music charts are constantly propped up with crap compilations with titles like 'The Greatest Dance Album In The World Ever...2.' If it's all the same to you, I'll be watching one of my 'Frasier' DVDs that night.

Economics 'experts' employed by the Government (on huge salaries, no doubt) today announced that they've worked out the net worth of Great Britain. Apparently, if the nation was a PLC, it'd be valued at six trillion pounds. That works out at roughly £86,000 for every man, woman and child. Now obviously, this is an average figure and some people are undoubtedly worth more than others, which is why they've taken the trouble to point out that net worth of the average citizen (that's you, monkey-boy!) is a mere one six-hundredth of a Beckham. Nice to feel valued, isn't it?

Anyone see that programme on Channel Four recently where they got a classful of this year's GCSE pupils and gave them a month of schooling as it was in the Fifties? Very interesting. They put the kids through four weeks of real classwork and discipline and at the end of it gave them three genuine Fifties test papers; Maths, English and Science. Only seven out of a class of thirty passed all three tests. Thing is, they weren't 'O' levels, they were the '11+'. As a footnote to the experiment, we were then told how the pupils had done in their GCSEs and almost all of them had attained 'A' grades in their Maths and English exams. Anyone surprised? Still, the Government assures us there has been absolutely no dumbing down of standards in the education system, Right Tony?

The justification behind the decision to build a new runway at Stansted Airport is that, according to a thirty-year 'projection', the number of people travelling by air will have tripled by the year 2030. Now, given that virtually every environmental study gives the world's oil supply another fifty years at best, is there really any point in spending all those millions tarmacking the countryside for something that is only going to be used for a couple of decades? Especially if they end up using the same contractors that've been pissing about with resurfacing the M6 for the last umpteen years. It might not even be finished before it becomes redundant! Still, I'm sure it'll make a fine place to park all the useless airliners. They could turn them into restaurants like they did with the old railroad cars in the States. 'Ed's 747 Diner - Home of the Jumbo Burger!'  Only trouble is, without any petrol it's going to be a three day stroll to get there. Still, should work up a bit of an appetite...

This whole 'Pop Idol' thing is really getting on my tits now. What's the point in conning the public into voting for a winner every week when they've already signed up all ten finalists anyway? There are going to be shows at Wembley and Birmingham NEC as well as the obligatory Christmas single. Unbelievably, these ten tuneless wonders have had the audacity to cover John Lennon's classic 'Happy Christmas (War is Over)'. Jesus. Does anybody know where we can get hold of another nine Mark Chapmans?

You know that hideous building opposite the Tower of London that looks like a motorcycle helmet? The one where Ken Livingstone resides? That was designed by an architect called Sir Norman Foster. Just over the river, they're building the new Swiss Re Insurance skyscraper. Tower 42 is it's proper name, but because of it's design, its been christened 'The Gherkin'. Sir Norman Foster came up with this one, too. And remember the 'Blade of Light'; the new footbridge across the Thames built for the Millennium that wobbled like a smacked arse the moment the first people tried to cross it? Yep, Sir Norman Foster again. I don't know about you, but if I'd've been the brains behind these three engineering marvels, the phrase 'I'll get my coat' would be crossing my mind about now.

Now that Herself and I have spawned; thereby becoming a 'family', I was told by the Health Visitor that we would be eligible for some sort of benefit. A quick check of the Internet revealed that we are entitled to claim 'Child Benefit', Child Tax Credit and 'Working Tax  Credit'. The website blurb stated that 'it's money with your name on it' and 'nine out of ten families with are eligible'. There were loads of other benefits and tax credits, too, covering virtually everyone in the country. So let me get this right; there's this massive organisation called the Inland Revenue that every month takes a huge chunk of everybody's wages and then gives everybody a smaller chunk back.  Now, I might be missing the point here, but wouldn't it make more sense to take a little bit less out of everyone's payslips? That way there would be no need to employ thousands of civil servants to take our money off us only to give it back under another name and we might all be able to live on what we actually earn. Or am I just being childishly simplistic?

I've banged on about the lack of originality in the music industry before. When I was a kid, we went from Glam to Disco to Punk. Then we had Ska, New Wave, New Romance until finally in 1986, those three wankers Stock, Aitken and Waterman killed all trace of originality stone dead. Since '86, its been remixed cover after remixed cover until we've reached the stage where they're starting to cover the very crap that began it all. I heard some teenage airhead's cover of Kylie's 'I Should Be So Lucky' on the radio today! The British Music industry has officially disappeared up its own arse, so it comes as no surprise to learn that toys are the next thing to get recycled. Know what this Christmas' must-have toys are? 'Ninja Turtles'. Thirteen years after they first appeared, they're back. So too is 'He-Man'. You can even get plug-in 'Atari' consoles once more. Unreal. I guess I shouldn't honk too much, though. The moment they bring back 'Evel Knievel', I'm having one!

So if you'd read that Antiques Roadshow was rolling up at your local town hall next week, what would you take along? Grandpa's old watch, perhaps? The Victorian porcelain doll that Great Aunt Petunia left you? Or would you decide to drag along a seven-foot-high mahogony kitchen dresser like the idiot I watched last week? I mean, what must've been going through his head, for God's sake? What did his wife say? 'Why don't you take your old Meccano set, dear, you've had it since 1933?' 'No, love, I'll think I'll pop along with half the fucking kitchen wall - see what they reckon it's worth'. This clown even managed to look pleased with himself when they told him it was a reproduction piece from the Twenties and was only worth around £800. It must've cost him that to get the bloody thing to the venue!

Following the screening of that 'Secret Policeman' programme, the Police Federation has, oh so predictably, begun yet another bout of self-flagellation for the benefit of the media. Yes, there are racist elements in the organisation, just as there are racists in any firm. The police claim to employ a representative cross-section of all aspects of society, so they shouldn't be surprised when a few narrow-minded fuckwits turn up in the ranks. Rather than over-reacting and embracing every word of the hugely damaging MacPherson report (the one that said that the whole Police service was 'institutionally racist'), the top brass should concentrate on rooting out the bigots and stop making the rank-and-file feel like they have to apologise for their very existence. This isn't likely to happen though, not while they allow the existence of a Black Police Federation (a racist concept by its very definition) and cannot see the irony in it.

Just when you think that society has finally come to it's senses and seen through the ludicrous morass known as political correctness, up pops some right-on lentil-eating beard with a new idea. Their latest gem is that the term 'B.C.' (Before Christ) be replaced with 'B.C.B.' (Before Christian Belief) so as not to offend any non-Christian who happens to give a toss. The fact that all other religions that really care about such a trivial concept already use their own numerical calender schemes seems to completely escape these dobbers.

I hereby award Channel Four the 'Scraping The Barrel Award For Crap Television' for their monumentally inane series, 'The Salon'. Whoever came up with the idea of people having their hair cut live on telly by Ozzy Osbourne's gay nephew and his fashion-victim friends is either on some serious medication or needs to be.

The Education System in this country just gets better and better, doesn't it? The latest brainwave is that, in future, the 'F' grading (fail) will be replaced with a new grade - 'N' for 'nearly'. I wonder how many Guardian readers it took to come up with that one. For God's sake, people either pass or they fail, there's no 'nearly'. This all stems from the bleeding-heart liberal brigade who think that all kids should be spared the pain of ever losing by removing any trace of competition from their lives. You can just imagine the type of petulant little bleeder this is producing, can't you? Just wait until they finish their 'education' and enter the real world. Imagine the letter that follows the first job interview. "Well done! You nearly got the job. Now fuck off..."

Have you noticed there seem to be more homeless people on the street these days? Nearly every street corner in the West End seems to be populated by a 'Big Issue' seller. There really is no need for this, guys. Instead of standing around flogging crap magazines, why don't you apply for asylum? All you'd have to do is tell the authoritites that you were fleeing persecution, and hey presto - free flat and benefits. Just let that beard grow a little longer and you're on the gravy train for life!

Starsky and Hutch' will be the next 70's show to be reheated for Hollywood. We've already been subjected to 'Charlie's Angels', 'The Hulk' and 'Planet of the Apes'. They're even talking about a new 'Dukes of Hazzard' (with straight faces, too!) It's can only be a matter of time before they start strip-mining the 80's for ideas. Hmm, 'Airwolf' and 'The A Team'. Jesus wept, I can hardly wait...

What the hell is going on with Television Cameramen? Have you noticed that whenever you see somebody interviewed on telly nowadays, you never get to see their whole head? The cameraman is always in extreme close-up, eyebrow to bottom lip on any poor sod who's talking. This was amusing on 'Wayne's World', but that was a decade ago. I don't know what they're being taught at polytechnic (sorry, 'university'), but I ain't impressed. Worse, just look what happens when they're given a room to film.They can't resist a left-to-right diagonal pan and turn. Look, you wankers, you're not filming 'Batman', this is regional television and as good as you're ever going to get. So, less of the MTV bollocks, ok?

Why are people still bothering to fit car alarms to their vehicles? Nobody gives a shit when they go off, do they? I mean, when was the last time you heard one blaring and thought 'Shit! That car's being twocked! I'd better ring the Old Bill sharpish!' Doesn't happen, does it? These days, we're all fully paid-up members of the 'fuck you' generation, so the only thing that's likely to cross our minds is 'I wish that tosser would turn that thing off, I'm trying to watch telly!' Take my advice; get an immobiliser instead. It won't stop the rat-boys, but at least we'll all be able to get some sleep.

Given the mental dexterity of the average advertising executive, you'd think they'd stay away from using rhetorical questions when advertising junk food to the masses, wouldn't you? Take the latest advert from Kellog's. It runs "What's so good about Kellog's Nutri-Gain bars?" Now, a moments reflection in anyone with a brain is going to provide a definitve answer -  'Fuck all'. Probably not the ideal way to push a sugary carbohydrate snack.

So I'm walking around London Euston station with an empty can of fizzy drink looking for somewhere to put it. Spotting a bin, I stroll over only to note that it had been sealed and a notice screwed onto the front which read 'This Bin Is Closed For Security Reasons'. Now, you probably all think that this is a protective measure designed to curb the threat of terrorism, but not me. I know Dangermouse's secret hide-out when I see it!

I'm going for promotion at work, except that it isn't a promotion in the sense that there is more money in it. It's a 're-apply for your own job with more responsibilities and a different title' type of promotion instead. Basically, I've got to sit down and write out over half a dozen sheets of A4 explaining why I think I am suited to do the job I've been doing for the last decade - a job, incidentally, that wouldn't even exist were it not for the hard-work and dedication that my colleagues and I have put in over the years. So, I'll spend three or four days typing out reams of paperwork which will end up on the desk of some fuckwit from personnel who doesn't know the first thing about the work I do. This person will then solomnly read through my submission without understanding any of the technical terms in it before deciding whether or not to 'promote' me. And the management have the audacity to wonder why the morale is so low in the department...

Memo to any editors of daily tabloid newspapers that may have dropped in. You know this whole 'Jordan vs. Jodie' thing you insist on printing every single day, yeah? Two words for you, guys - Nobody and Cares.

Why do television news reporters assume that standing outside No.10  Downing Street at half past ten at night will automatically lend credence to their report on whatever it was that Tony has done today? I'm more likely to believe the guy who's got the sense to talk to me from a nice warm studio than the dobber who's standing out there in the pissing rain getting a soaking.

I've honked at the state of Saturday night television before, but there was a truly worrying development in the paper today. Apparently, the viewing figures are so appallingly awful for dross like 'Pop Idol', 'Fame Academy', 'Ant & Dec' etc, that the powers that be are actually considering bringing the sinister Michael Barrymore back to our screens. Jesus, what's next? No, wait, let me guess...Noel fucking Edmonds.

As you are all aware, this page is devoted to proving just how much society is dumbing down as we claw our way ever further into this new century. Even so, occasionally, things still have the capacity to surprise me with their sheer mind-numbing stupidity. Take the combination of driving snacks I purchased today, namely a carton of pure orange juice and a packet of peanuts. That the juice was pointlessly marked with a 'V' symbol, thus assuring any vegetarians of the total lack of gravy within the carton, I could just about handle. The peanut packet being labelled with 'contains peanuts', however, required a double-take before I could actually believe it.

I love the way the makers of 'Sunny Delight' are promoting their new 'no added sugar' variety as some kind of healthy alternative. Ok, so there's no added 'sugar', but the glucose, fructose, cellulose and vegetable oil are all present and correct, along with all the flavourings, colourings, preservatives and 'E'-numbers. This stuff sells well because it has an nice orangey taste and contains vitamin 'C'. Hey, kids, so does an orange! An orange also contains more that 2% orange juice, too. It's worth noting that the same company who makes it is also responsible for 'Pringles'. Then again, seeing as the company is 'Proctor and Gamble', it might be worth remembering that they make 'Bold' and 'Head and Shoulders' too.

Take a look at the TV guides that come with your Sunday papers and they'll tell you exactly what will happen in the soap of your choice for the coming week, thus removing any reason to watch it. The same thing occurs on the rare occasions when someone wins the jackpot on 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?'  The tabloids (and increasingly, the broadsheets too) delight in letting us know that so-and-so from Surrey copped the big one last night, so tune in on Saturday to see for yourself. Why have they started doing this? What possible purpose does it serve, other than to spoil the enjoyment of anyone watching? I used to have a mate like this at school and I remember watching 'Jaws' for the first time on his video. My fledgeling eleven-year-old imagination was in overdrive; I was totally hooked on every suspenseful moment up to the point where Dominic leans over and whispers, "You'll like this bit...it's where his head pops out of the boat!" Little git.

The Germans call it 'schadenfreude' - taking a perverse delight in the misfortune of others - and it's the only reason that I'm able to tolerate some of these reality TV shows that we're constantly being bombarded with. My favourite at the moment is 'Changing Rooms'. I love seeing the expression on some poor bastard's face when he finds out that Lawrence Llewellyn-Bell-End has painted his living-room pink and stapled up his curtains. If only they would combine it with 'Ground Force', it would be perfect. Just imagine if, after turning the guy's house into a knocking shop, they then take him outside and confront him with the fact that Charlie Dimmock has fucked up his garden as well..

Channel Four are at a loss to explain why the viewing figures for their latest series of 'Big Brother' are so low. Could it be that the bubble has finally burst for reality television? Has the public finally wised up to the fact that watching twelve fuckwits locked in a room every night is not actually entertainment? Or is it simply that it's all been done before. Three times. Whatever the reason, it won't stop 'Big Brother 5' from hitting your screens next year. I say your screens; there's no way I'll ever have that shite on my telly!

I've just had this really great idea. Suppose we got half a dozen reasonably attractive women and formed them into a band. We could find some old disco tune and get them all to sing it at exactly the same pitch (harmonies are like, so last century), then we could add a pumping drum n' bass backing track and get some homie to lay down a rap in the middle. Best of all though, what if all the girls performed the same dance routine while they sang! Cool, eh? I'm telling you, this could really take off...

Twenty-five years ago we had Morecambe and Wise. Ten years ago we had Reeves and Mortimer. Today, it's Ant and Dec. Comic geniuses to Geordie glove-puppets in only a quarter of a century...

OK, so I'm back on 'celebrities' again. Have you noticed the amount of award ceremonies that these wasters attend during the year? They just can't resist the opportunity to congratulate each other on the results of their latest fortnight's work, can they? As an actor, you have Cannes, the BAFTAs, the Oscars (if you're lucky), the Emmys, the Sundance festival; not to mention any number of local magazine and newspaper awards. If you're a singer, you have the Q awards, the Ivor Novello's, the Grammys, the Brits and various dross like the Smash Hits winners awards, etc. Now, given that most of the 'stars' on the circuit these days tend to knock out the obligatory single as soon as they've had their face on the telly, chances are you'll see the same china grins turning up at every award ceremony going. Just how do they find the time to stay true to their chosen muses and maintain a suitable level of professional input into their work? How do they ensure that enough time is spent keeping the quality of television and film at it's current level? I mean, God help us if treats like the last 'Westlife' album or 'Men In Black 2' are denied to future audiences simply because everybody's too busy kissing each other's arses.

...and while we're on the subject, why is it that famous people only ever seem to hang around with other famous people? Is it some sort of mutual saprophytic feeding ritual; taking sustenance from each other's popularity? Or is it that the only 'real' people they ever meet are fans gushing about how great they are? I suspect it's a bit of both. I therefore feel it is my duty as an altruist and all-round top geezer to offer my services as the world's first official Celebrity's Mate. Any celebrity needing to talk to someone in the outside world who can be guaranteed not to give a rat's arse about their latest 'project' or what labels they're wearing is invited to get in touch with me via the guest book. We'll have a chat over a beer or two and go for a curry afterwards. Heads will gradually be removed from rectums and life will again be put into perspective. This generous offer is open to absolutely any famous person with the sole exception of Winona Ryder.

What is this national obsession with celebrity? I can under stand (vaguely) why one might hang around for half an hour or so to get the autograph of, say, Sean Connery, but when you have people queuing halfway round HMV to scream at a bunch of manufactured numptys that were only created two weeks ago and will be gone by Christmas, then I think it's time this nation had a good long look at itself. I mean, the whole notion of celebrity...it used to be that to become a celebrity, one had to be in films, regularly appear on a popular programme or front a successful band. Nowadays, you just have to have been on TV in order to secure your fifteen minutes. Look at the latest series of  'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here' and tell me you haven't looked at at least two of them and asked yourself, "Who the fuck are you?"  Thing is though, it doesn't matter, does it? You'll watch it just the same because it's on and if you didn't watch, you'd have to do something weird like actually talk to your partner or play with your kids. But then, like the great Paul Weller once said, 'The public want what the public get.'  What do you mean, who's Paul Weller?  Go on, get back to your telly before you start thinking...

News At Ten, the once-mighty ITN flagship has succumbed to the dumbing-down process in the last few years. We used to get given the news in descending order of importance before old Reggie Bosanquet would sign off with a swimming cat or some other light-hearted tosh. Now it's all 'coming up next...' and 'still to come tonight...'. Stop giving us these half-arsed trailers and get on with telling us the day's events and then once you've told  us, go away. None of this 'and the main points of the news again...' shit, thank-you very much. You told me already. Ten minutes ago. I have a memory, I can process information. The worst crime however, is when they slip in some celebrity stuff and trying to sell it to me as important. I don't care what dress Kate Winslet wore to last night's premiere. I couldn't give a toss if Kate Winslet was strolling naked through my living room and...hang on, I think I've spotted a flaw in this argument.